Fried clams at Howard Johnson’s restaurants. Souvlaki at The Torch, a Greek restaurant in the Dallas neighborhood where I grew up. The sugar cubes given to me by the doting waiters at The Torch. Cabrito (kid — as in “baby goat”), first offered to me at a Mexican restaurant in San Antonio when my father explained to the waiter that I was a fussy eater but would eat things that were plain and lightly seasoned.

Also, strangely enough, baked flounder. I think my mother used to bake what were called “filets” of flounder, which my father referred to as “flat flounder.”

“What’s for supper tonight?”

“Mother’s making flat flounder.”

Oh! And those store-bought cookies with a layer of something like a vanilla wafer topped by a pink or white coconut-encrusted marshmallow topping. Kind of like a Hostess Sno-Ball on a plain cookie. My Connecticut grandmother used to buy them as a treat for me — a “smack” (her term for “snack”). There was always a package in the mahogany sideboard when we visited in August. Her maiden name was Stonebridge. Her parents were English. I liked her roast beef and her Yorkshire pudding.

I’m not sure my palate has changed much since childhood. We grew up overseas and ate well and ate well when we returned to the States. I still like bold flavors and spicy food. I do remember requesting ‘normal’ meals when friends came over, but that was out of embarrassment.

One day I saw on the kitchen counter a dab of what I thought was raw hamburger, and I ate it, only to realize it was our Dalmatian’s “Dash” brand of canned dog food. My mother was outside talking with one of the neighbors, and I ran outside, shrieking, “MA-ma! I ate . . . DAAASH!”

I also recall being so intrigued by ads for Stripe toothpaste that my mother finally caved in and bought it for me. Tried it. Didn’t like. Over-reacted. Stood on the laundry hamper in the bathroom and screamed, “I . . . HATE . . . STRIPE!” Strategically timed for an audience: the mailman.

It would seem I went for bland glop. Except when at restaurants. Go figure the souvlaki (lamb marinated in lemon juice and olive oil, I’m thinking, and sparked with oregano and thyme, maybe) and the cabrito (tender young goat, maybe some cumin and cilantro).

Maybe it was the waiters. Possibly an early attraction toward hot Mediterranean and Latino men.

The changes in my food tastes were evolutionary, not abrupt; still, the changes were distinct.

Come to think, it could be that my mother cooked the bland New England food of her own childhood as a way of establishing a sense of home. (She’d been uprooted and shifted to Texas when my father’s aircraft company moved south after WWII.)

I know that in the years after my father had died and I had left home, when I went to visit, she made much lighter and more adventurous meals than I recall from childhood.